


Cover it over and write it out

by TheArchaeologist



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Dyslexia, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Tries His Best, Humor, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Insecure Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Has a Past, Jaskier | Dandelion is a Noble, Kinda, Light Angst, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:07:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23672812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheArchaeologist/pseuds/TheArchaeologist
Summary: There is something Geralt has noticed, after travelling so long with Jaskier. It is nothing major, nothing world ending or even warranting bringing up, but it is there, nonetheless, a funny little habit he can’t unsee.“You’re better at this stuff than me, Geralt, you read it.”
Comments: 68
Kudos: 587





	Cover it over and write it out

“Hey, Geralt?”

“Hm?”

“Do me a favour, use your Witcher eyes to read this for me.”

It starts off with small, barely noticeable moments, easily missed unless the proper amount of time and effort is put into searching for them. In fact, it takes nearly a year for Geralt to realise that the seemingly disjointed questions, slip ups, and flashes of confusion actually amalgamate into anything at all.

The odd mispronunciation of words, the butchering of language to make it fit a tune, one memorable occasion when a straight up argument broke out over whether Jaskier’s latest descriptor was a real thing or nonsense he made up on the spot because he couldn’t think of anything to rhyme with _exquisite._

At first, he shrugs them off. Jaskier has a long list of quirks and habits, after all, and it would take centuries to unravel each and every one, let alone attempt to understand them. The bard in question never breeches the topic, and Geralt knows that if it was something he felt the need to discuss, he would. Jaskier is well trained in talking on behalf of the entire Continent, and whenever thoughts rest heavy on his mind he holds no fear in bringing it up, usually in the form of nagging or whining or whinging until Geralt relents just to get some peace.

So, he doesn’t mention it. At times it is simply best to acknowledge when things are none of his business and call it a day.

However, as life continues and they dip in and out of each other’s company with an ease that slowly comes with practice (or, more accurately, Jaskier just keeps _following him_ ), these instances become less small tweaks of behaviour and turn into obvious, extremely noticeable occasions of difficulty that hinder the bard and leave him red.

He ends up paying double the amount in a shop, because he misunderstood the price tag and became too flustered to back out the deal.

He gets in a jumble over a riddle which nearly costs them several limbs and their heads when the entity trialling them takes violent offence.

He misspells directions, sending them veering wildly off track and taking Geralt two days to notice, nearly resulting in a small riot when the townsfolk think they abandoned the job and ran off with the coin.

Geralt can’t tell if it is worsening over time or if things have simply always been like that and he is just becoming more exposed, but Jaskier adamantly switches topics whenever they come anywhere near the subject, and while Geralt is many things, he is not the type of man to go pushing where he is not wanted.

Which leads them to the library, and the book which gets shoved Geralt’s way.

“Jaskier…”

“You’ve got,” Waving around his face, Jaskier indicates to his eyes, “All that special vision stuff. You’ll be able to read it better than me.”

“The only reason I’m allowed in here is because I promised not to touch anything.” Geralt watches as the librarian goes wandering by the end of their aisle for the fifth time. “I’m not pushing our luck.”

They are in Oxenfurt, ducking in the city while the weather is shit to make use of the resources Jaskier has promised him can be found in the Academy libraries.

Recently, there has been a certain stand of monster which has been popping up across the Continent, twisted, gnarly things the likes of which Geralt has never seen before. According to the library catalogue, one of the local scholars who dabbles in biology has been studying such beasts, writing up observations in field journals and getting them properly published into leather bound books.

Normally Geralt would simply learn on the job, flinging different potions and techniques at the wall to see what sticks, however there is talk of said strand of monster plaguing a town a few hours outside of the city, taking livestock and children, and, of course, it is on their route.

Undoubtedly, he is going to get picked up by desperate farmers when they pass through. Going by the vivid and likely exaggerated tales that have been drifting their way, the creature is some kind of inbred, mutated _thing_ , and for all his training Geralt is no miracle worker. He can’t pull extensive knowledge out his ass and magically understand every mistake of nature.

There is no harm in doing a bit of research before heading off, hopefully saving some of his potion supply in the process.

At the library door they were greeted with suspicion and hissed words, and no amount of flouncy explanations from Jaskier lightened the mood of the staff and patrons. It was only with the promise that nothing would end up in his hands and Jaskier would take charge that they were released into the rows of books.

A few aisles over he can hear two workers whispering, as if he is going to set their precious tomes on fire simply by glaring a little too hard.

Where these myths about Witchers come from, he really doesn’t know.

Pulling a face, Jaskier continues offering the book towards him. It is a small thing, only just the size of his hand, and on the open pages Geralt can see the tiny handwritten lines, copied out from the original journal to be presentable to the public.

“I could hold it up?” Jaskier suggests weakly. “You wouldn’t have to touch it, just-”

“ _Jaskier_.”

“What? That’s not breaking the rules!”

“Stop being difficult and read it.”

Rolling his eyes but bringing the book back, Jaskier flips through the pages dejectedly, squinting at the information.

The librarian goes wandering by again, cradling two heavy tomes in her arms. Geralt catches her eye over the top of Jaskier’s head, holding it while offering a smile which, he has been reliably informed, is _creepy as fuck_. She bristles in response, flushing at getting caught, and hurries along, her shoes noisy on the wooden floorboards. She snaps at the two whispering, ordering them back to work.

Elsewhere in the library, the soft sounds of quills scratching on parchment fills the rooms, students diligently working on their studies, exchanging books and muttering low discussions on whatever topic their lecturers wish them to study for the week. The smell of ink accompanies it, old spillages sunk deep into the desks, along with the lingering undercurrent of rotting food, likely the crumbs of hidden snacks scoffed out of sight.

Rain patters against the roof, splattering down the windowpanes.

In a way, it is hard to imagine Jaskier wandering among these rows and sat between classmates, so loud and boisterous, always humming, always singing, always making some kind of noise whether it is wanted or not. It is almost surprising that there is no sketched image of him nailed to the door, barring him from ever gracing their celebrated halls again and disrupting the peace.

Crossing his arms, Geralt eyes Jaskier, who is still on the same page he was a minute ago.

He grunts. “Well?”

“It’s a load of bullshit, really,” Jaskier huffs back, swallowing, “I don’t think-”

“What does it say?”

“Not much, just that sometimes things mate and-”

“Jaskier, what does it say?”

Tutting, Jaskier sends him a look. “I’m not going it to read to you like it’s some bedtime story, Geralt, you’re a big boy-”

“ _Jaskier_.” He cuts off, putting a little growl into it. “I’m the one who has to slay the beast. Tell me, _what does it say?”_

Groaning behind closed teeth, Jaskier huffs, shifting on his feet and eyes darting up and down the aisle, as if checking they aren’t being watched at this very moment. When he notices Geralt’s raised brow, he sighs, licking his lips.

“Fine. _Fine_. I’ll bloody read to you.”

“How kind.”

“Fuck off.” Adjusting his grip on the book, Jaskier pokes one finger onto the page, using it to follow the line as he quotes, “The breeding between two monsters of unrelent- _unrelated_ species is rare and…Sorry, _a_ rare and odd occurrence. In times of s-strife, it can be assumed that des-per-ation and the need to reg-ly mate results in two creatures of a similar disss-position taking to one ‘nother, resulting in a mil…A mixblood entity of unknown qualities.”

The librarian walks by again, notably keeping her face forward while her eyes peek out their corners, glancing at him, but Geralt doesn’t glare back this time, instead watching intently as Jaskier gulps, his apple bobbing in his throat and a frown pulling down his brows as he concentrates.

Continuing onto the next paragraph, Jaskier follows his finger. “Often these often…Often these _offspring_ share try-traits with both parent species. In the case of both parents having the same weaknesses, it can be ded-deduced that the offspring will be suss…Susceptible as well.” Another gulp, and a faint, beetroot tint begins to blush over Jaskier’s cheeks. “In the c-case of differing weakness betwoo-between the parents, the traits of the offspring’s body shall half…Shall _have_ to be examined in order to understand wha-which it inherited and which it did not.”

As he goes to suck in a breath of air, Geralt silently reaches over, carefully slipping the book out of Jaskier’s hand. He releases it without quarrel, his face shaded something fierce as he awkwardly clears his throat.

“Just keep an eye out for the librarian.” Geralt says, then quickly skims over the page. 

****

*****

Later that night, when the library is far behind them and they both lay on their beds, Geralt staring at the ceiling of their inn room and tracing all the stains while Jaskier sits upright against the headboard, strumming his lute, the silence on the subject breaks.

“I used to get the cane a lot, growing up.”

Working his jaw until it cracks, Geralt keeps his gaze upward, humming a noise of acknowledgement.

“Right across my palms. It hurt like a bitch, too. I still don’t understand how they expected me to write afterwards, when I could barely hold anything.” He plays a few soft notes absently, the song morphing into a slower version of _Toss a Coin_. “Once they made me read three chapters in front of my father and brothers, because they knew it’d scare me and thought it’d make me want to learn faster.”

Geralt says nothing to that, but he shifts his legs so they cross over at the ankles. Jaskier takes the movement for what it is and continues.

“Didn’t work, of course, so eventually they started bringing in _healers_ , thinking something was wrong with my eyes.”

“Was there?”

“Nope. They’d ask me all these questions and I wouldn’t really answer them, then my father had to cough up coin and they’d leave.” Smirking, Jaskier cocks his head Geralt’s way, but the light in his gaze is dimmer than usual. “Rinse and repeat.”

Geralt stares back, rubbing at his cheek. “Why wouldn’t you answer?”

The smirk slides into nothing and Jaskier purses his lips, steering his gaze towards the fire. His fingers never stop, the tune melting away from _Toss a Coin_ into something Geralt has never heard before, however he turns quiet, contemplative, an odd look on the bard’s normally carefree face that forces an uncomfortable lump to rise up and sit on his chest. 

Perhaps this was not the time to go prodding for answers. Things between them are often private for a reason, and it goes unsaid that they don’t ask questions about topics not freely given up for scrutiny. Jaskier may sometimes try, in jest and good spirit, but he never hovers on it, never goes beyond a light nudge before switching gears and blathering on about something else entirely.

“They just…Move.” Jaskier says, so quietly that Geralt nearly misses it in his contemplation. He turns his head to the side fully to look at him, but finds Jaskier still facing away, gnawing at the inside of his cheek.

“Move?” Geralt echoes.

“The words on the page,” He elaborates, “And when they’re not moving, they’re gone, or they turn up in the wrong place but it still make sense until I get to the end and realise I’ve read it wrong.” Blinking a few times, Jaskier offers him an odd smile, one that doesn’t reach his eyes nor attempts to. “I figured out pretty early on not to mention it, cause then they’d stop checking my eyes and check my brain instead, and if my father thought I was simpleminded then…”

He trails off, and slowly Jaskier’s legs, stretched out on the bed, shift up so they are crossed beneath him. 

The music continues. Outside, the noise of the rain lightens to a dreary spit.

Geralt runs his tongue over his teeth, dragging his head towards the ceiling again.

It is rare for Jaskier to mention anything of his family, the same way Geralt keeps his lips tight about his own childhood. From the little he has been able to deduce, Jaskier comes from money, though not the vast amounts that speak of palaces and kings, and at some point, he left it all without a second glance and nothing but a lute on his back. It is unclear whether his time at Oxenfurt was before or afterwards, especially because it is becoming increasingly hard for Geralt to work out Jaskier’s proper age, but those are queries for another day and he leaves them be for now.

Feeling the need to say something, anything, just to break the weird tension that settles in the room from the hanging statement, Geralt, ever the wordsmith, blurts out the first thing that dives into his head.

“You…Write songs.”

Jaskier snorts, and a laugh tickles his reply. “Yes, Geralt, I write songs. How very observant of you.”

“You went to school.” He presses, trying to keep the accusation out of his tone. He does not want to sound as if he is judging Jaskier poorly. “You came here, to the Academy.”

“So, you _do_ listen to me when I talk.”

“How?”

“How what?”

“How did you manage it?” 

He has heard tales of the vast essays and tricky assignments, the long nights sat with a candle in dorm rooms and the frequent afternoons spent huddled over a desk in a library. Jaskier has bemoaned them often enough, thanking the gods that he is now free of that life and on the open road where no one ever has to grade him again.

Humming under his breath, Jaskier tilts his head back against the wall, mulling his answer over. “Practice, I guess, and a lecturer who ignored all my terrible spelling.” He forces a smile again, and again it seems strange on his face. “Honestly, if my first tutor could see my songbook now, he’d scream.”

“It’s…Bad?”

“It’s _illegible_.” Jaskier briefly pauses in playing to snatch his songbook from the bedside table, tossing it Geralt’s way.

He catches it with ease, the worn leather feeling old and water-damaged beneath his fingertips, and carefully he peels the book open, mindful of anything loose which could tumble out onto his face.

Jaskier resumes the music, throwing him a cordial, “Good luck.”

The page that greets him seems to be the grisly details of one of Geralt’s previous endeavours, a story Jaskier pried out of him after several drinks and a lot of prodding. His handwriting, spidery and squished, litters the songbook in uneven and slanting lines, and Geralt has to silently admit, it _is_ near illegible, even to his eyes.

Vesemir would have grouched his ear off if Geralt ever produced work like this.

No wonder Jaskier received the cane.

Words are crossed out and rewritten constantly, creating large, blotchy splashes of ink on the parchment like dark rain clouds. The spelling of anything longer than five letters is either exactly right or off by several paces with minimal in between, and the spacing between each gets narrower and narrower as Jaskier hurries to get things down before he forgets. 

As he thumbs though, Geralt can see where the confusion stems from, how the words pronounced differently to their spelling end up written as said, muddling in with Jaskier’s own unique way of speaking to create things vaguely understandable with a hint of comprehensibility.

Anxiety becomes angsietty, gorgeous becomes goredgious, magnificent becomes magniffysent, and so on.

“Do the words move when you write?” He finds himself asking before he can think.

“Hm?” Raising an eyebrow, Jaskier mouth forms a soft _‘oh’_. He shrugs. “A little? If I’m reading back, maybe. It’s not as bad. I know what I mean, at least.” Chuckling lightly, he adds, “I used to have to duck out all the exams where you read out loud. You’re not meant to, but I fluttered my eyelids and swapped a few mandatory courses about.”

Twisting, Geralt peers over at him, imagination trying to picture Jaskier bending rules simply to avoid something as simple to learned men as reading. “They move worse, then, when you’re speaking it out loud?”

“Oh, sweet Melitele’s _tits_ , yes. Reading in my head, as well. It’s fun. I accidentally began swearing when I was about five from misreading something, and my mother lost her marbles.” Jaskier clicks his tongue, forcing the more familiar sarcasm and tilting wit into his voice. “For the record, it was _not_ intentional, no matter what my brothers say.”

“Hm.” Geralt offers back the songbook, and Jaskier leans over to take it.

“You doubting me?”

Huffing, Geralt leans back down, crossing his arms beneath his head. “I have known you for a while. I have a few reservations.”

Gasping dramatically, Jaskier lets his mouth drop. “The slander! My next song will be about your fat head, just for that, you watch.”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

“You’re a cruel man, Geralt of Rivia.” A more genuine grin pulls at Jaskier’s face, and his thoughtless playing picks into a jollier melody.

Geralt has many questions, confusions which still linger bitter on his tongue and discomfort that wiggles across his sternum, however, he holds them in. They can be contemplated later, run over in his brain as he tries to organise the mental images Jaskier has left him with.

For the moment, the mood has lightened, become comfortable and content again in the warm, dry room. Later, possibly tomorrow, possibly in a month, he may ask, and Jaskier may answer, but for now he is willing to listen as the bard begins to wax lyrics on his latest project, settled on a mildly satisfactory bed with the patter of rain against the windowpane to send him drifting off to sleep.

“Hey, Geralt, how do you spell gracious?”

“G-r-a-c-i-o-u-s.”

“Add an _e_.” Geralt mutters, just before Jaskier takes off to deliver Geralt’s potion list to the local mage while he tracks a griffin through the woods. “At the end of that last one, add an _e_.”

“Oh, in the name of all things godly, do scholars always have to write so _small?”_

Glancing across the campfire, Geralt pauses, halfway through cleaning his blades, watching as, for the third time, Jaskier starts at the top of the page, brows knitted together and tongue just poking out in frustrated concentration.

Wordlessly, Geralt holds out a hand for the book.

**Author's Note:**

> This is officially the most self-indulgent thing I have ever written and I’m not at all sorry.
> 
> [Tumblr](https://ancientstone.tumblr.com/)


End file.
